


Thank You for Nothing at All

by Adoxography



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Gen, Growing Up, Sci fi and B movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 16:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8998567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adoxography/pseuds/Adoxography
Summary: Over a decade passed between Emma's near death experience and her reunion with her brother. She didn't spend that time waiting.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thelonebamf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelonebamf/gifts).



> For the MGS Xmas Supply drop prompt: Something about Emma growing up, dealing with her brother's absence and trying to cope. 
> 
> Title from [ this song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jLAfmxC5lJI) which I think is literally the most Emma and Hal song ever and it makes me cry every time. 
> 
> This got out of hand, as it always does with me, sorry about the tl;dr, I hope you enjoy this and I'm sorry I accidentally spoiled that I was writing this to you on tumblr, I swear I didn't know it was your prompt!

_ It hurts, she thinks, it hurts so fucking bad. Strong arms carry her, but every time he steps, agony stabs through her body like… like the knife had, only it gets worse the longer he carries her. She closes her eyes because her vision is swimming. Her glasses are crooked and the frames press painfully into her cheek. Snake smells just like she imagined he would: like cigarettes and blood. But maybe it’s her own blood she’s smelling. She can’t focus on his face, and when he jogs her body again, the pain makes everything go black. _

Emma awoke sobbing and retching. She doubled over, wrapping her arms around her knees until she stopped shaking. The room was lit by the eerie blue glow of the television. She hoped her mother hadn’t heard her wake up. She’d scold her for falling asleep watching ‘scary movies’ and tell her that they were the reason she had nightmares. It was easier for her, Emma supposed, than admitting the real cause of Emma’s nightmares.

She still felt like she was underwater, body held under by the weight of her stepfather and his wheelchair. She shook her head to clear the memory, his face morphing into her brother’s as his hands wrapped around her throat.

Emma shifted to rest against the headboard and realized with growing shame that she had wet the bed. Now she really hoped her mother hadn’t heard anything. She couldn’t bear the look her mother would give her, half embarrassment and half disappointment.

“You’re eleven years old,” she’d say, wrinkling her nose. “Maybe we should see another doctor.”

Emma stripped out of her filthy pajamas, dumping them on her bed. She tiptoed into the ensuite bathroom to wipe herself down with a warm washcloth before pulling on a clean teeshirt and leggings.

Bundling her soiled laundry into a basket, she poked her head out into the hallway. No lights. That meant her mother probably wasn’t home yet. She checked the time: two in the morning. Her mother wouldn’t be due home for a couple hours. She always stayed out late the night of a party. Emma breathed a sigh of relief and made her way down the stairs to the laundry room.

Her mother had put Dr. Emmerich’s money to good use. They had a newly renovated, two story, three bedroom flat in the heart of London, within walking distance of the tube. They paid an arm and a leg in rent, but her mother was an exceptionally shrewd investor, so they had no fear of being evicted any time soon. What her mother had in business sense she lacked in common sense. She’d had a string of atrocious lovers until she settled down with Mr. Robinson who used too much hair gel and liked being called Sir. He gave Emma the creeps.

She upended her laundry basket into the washing machine, but she needed to grab a step stool to reach the dials. It would be forty-five minutes until she could flip her load into the dryer, so she had to stay awake for at least that long. There was no way she would risk her mother coming home and finding that.

Sighing, she tucked her laundry basket in the corner behind the door and found her way in the dark to the kitchen. The overhead light seared her eyes when she flipped it on, but it let her find the kettle and a bag of green tea. The maid had been by yesterday, so they had clean dishes piled high beside the sink. Emma set about putting them away while the kettle boiled.

She popped the bag in her favourite mug. It had a drawing of the Terminator she’d done in sharpie on the side. Her mother hated it. Emma thought it was pretty good for a first attempt, though maybe her mother was more upset about marker on her matching set of white mugs than the quality of the drawing.

While her tea steeped, she went into the living room, standing in front of the bookshelf packed with VHS tapes and a small collection of DVDs. Her mother had given her the old CRT TV and VHS player for her bedroom when she bought a brand new Plasma screen to go with the DVD player. Emma loved it—she loved being able to fall asleep watching movies. She loved that, unlike her mother’s stupid DVD player, if she woke up after they were over an annoying menu playing the same 15 seconds of film score wouldn’t keep her from falling back asleep.

Her fingers ran along the cardboard cases until she pulled one down with her index finger. The case for  _ It Came From Outer Space  _ had edges worn white from use. Emma loved science fiction from any era, but when it came to movies to fall asleep to, she preferred the classics to more modern Hollywood blockbusters. Older movies tended to have less explosions and the soundtrack and sound effects were usually the same volume as the dialogue, which meant she didn’t have to constantly adjust the volume if she actually wanted to watch it late at night.

She looked back at her tea and put the tape back. She didn’t want to go back to sleep. She grabbed  _ Alien _ and  _ Aliens,  _ weighing them both in her hands before deciding to take both. Who knew how long she’d need to keep herself distracted? She tucked them under her arm, and after throwing out her teabag, she crept back up the stairs, trying not to spill boiling hot water on her hand.

She put her tea on her desk next to her computer and popped out the tape from earlier tonight, sticking it back in its sleeve.  _ Mothra vs. Godzilla —  _ not her favourite, but it had been the first thing she grabbed before she dashed back upstairs, her mother trying to give her a kiss goodnight as her and Robinson got ready to leave. Emma hated the red smears her mother’s lipstick would leave on her cheek, and the smell of Chanel N°5 made her gag.

“Mother, I’m eleven, not three!” She’d insisted, ducking just in time to avoid an embrace, nearly bowling over Robinson in her mad dash for the stairs.

“For heaven’s sake, Emma!” her mother called after her, crossing her arms.

Robinson grabbed Emma’s arm as she ran past. “Hug your mother, Emma,” he told her in his ‘stern’ and ‘fatherly’ voice.

He underestimated how skinny her wrists were and how desperate she was to get his hands off her. She wanted to spit at him, but she told herself to be happy with simply escaping. She didn’t want to start a fight right before she was going to get the house to herself. Instead she called him a ‘douchebag fuckstick’ in her head, combining both Gator and xXxRazorwirexXx’s favourite swears.

She put down  _ Godzilla _ and popped in  _ Alien _ , fastforwarding past the previews. She pressed play and smiled as the familiar hollow notes of the opening score began to play.

Content to let the movie run in the background, she booted her computer, mouse in one hand and tea in the other. She blew steam off the rim, but still managed to scald herself with her first sip. She put it down so she could type in the password for the secure chatroom. Only Gator was up, it seemed. Things had been pretty quiet since the NSA operation. Emma was sure she wasn't the only one receiving constant recruitment emails and she couldn’t blame anyone for taking the offer. It was a hell of a lot of money. Gator refused on principle, but Emma was pretty sure Gator was like sixteen and thought that being an Anarchist was a legitimate career choice. She still liked him though.

She logged back out while he was still typing. He was going to ask her what the plan was, what the next big ‘sting’ was going to be. He wanted to stick it to The Man. Emma didn’t know how much her heart was in it right now. It all felt so pointless. Hacking just for the sake of it? What was she trying to prove? Who was she trying to impress?

She wondered how her online friends would react when they found out their operation on the NSA was lead by a nine year old girl. It was one of many reasons she ignored the job offers that piled up in her inbox. Who would take her, a child, seriously? It was frustrating enough having her mother ignore her autonomy. Besides, she couldn’t really take credit for a lot of the programs she’d used. The ones she’d stolen from her brother before he left. Another reason not to think about the NSA operation.

After another two years of study, she wrote her own programs now. Hal would be impressed.

She didn’t burn her tongue when she raised her mug to her lips, but the smell suddenly reminded her of a bedroom much like this one. It took every fibre of self-control she had to keep herself from dashing the mug against the wall. Her mother was always scolding her for her temper and Emma had to admit, she might have a point. Instead, she clenched her jaw and carried the mug out of her bedroom, leaving it in the hallway outside. With any luck, Robinson would step on it and it would crack under his weight, stabbing ceramic shards into his foot. At the very least, he’d have a wet sock.

She got out of her chair to sit down on her bed, then got back up to walk across the room and check her email. Nothing new. She ran a hand through her hair and finally settled down on the floor.

She wondered if Hal had been like her when he was her age. Maybe not. He hadn’t gone to university until he was almost eighteen and Emma was slated to finish sixth form in another two years if she kept her grades up. She wondered…

Being up this late always made her unfortunately nostalgic. She chewed her lip and turned her attention back to the movie.

_ It hurts to see him again this way. The first time he’s held her in over ten years and it has to be like this. She barely holds back her agonized sobs as Snake wraps bandages around her middle. Hal leans in close, murmuring platitudes. He runs a hand over her forehead, through her hair. God, she’s missed him. She just wishes the pain would stop for just a second so she could enjoy this moment. _

She’d always imagined high school would be a little more like  _ Gauntlet, _ but with more denim and flannel. To be fair, her imaginings had mostly come from Hal’s nightmarish descriptions of the horrors visited on him daily by more athletic tormentors.

A few things differed for her. For one, there were the uniforms. Her mother only paid for the best schooling. For another, no one had ever tried to lock her in a locker or dump her books in the toilet. Emma was fortunate enough to escape the notice of most of her peers and it puzzled her why Hal hadn’t. Maybe American schools were different. A couple years of keeping her head down and making sure she didn’t raise her hand in class any more than anyone else. This was a temporary situation that she could survive, even if the boredom threatened to kill her.

Five more months and she’d be free. Oxford was calling her name, as was their computer sciences program. She bet she could finish her undergrad in two years, maybe less if they let her test out of some classes. She could barely contain her excitement. Access to equipment she could only dream of touching, people she could actually consider her peers.

She repeated this to herself over and over again as she completed mind-numbingly dull assignments.

A knock at her door. She spun her chair around as it opened. Her mother never waited for a response no matter how many times Emma shouted at her.

“Hello, my darling,” she said cheerfully.

Emma frowned and crossed her arms. Her mother looked stunning in a green satin dress, her hair curled, a fur stole wrapped around her shoulders. Her lipstick was a deep burgundy and her lids were mostly neutral with a touch of shimmery sage.

“What’s the occasion?” Emma asked, suspiciously.

Her mother sighed, sitting down on Emma’s unmade bed. “Your stepfather and I were supposed to go to the ballet, but he’s got to stay home for some sort of teleconference.”

Emma’s frown deepened. “And?”

“Well, I was wondering if you’d come with me?” Her mother smiled brightly at her. She’d gotten veneers in America and her teeth were blindingly white.

“No thanks, I’ve got work to do,” Emma lied. She hated going out with her mother because it was never  _ just  _ the ballet. It was drinks after, and then they’d run into one of her mother’s friends, and then that friend would invite them both back to their flat and Emma wouldn’t get home until four in the morning after being forced to answer a thousand questions about things like school and whether she had a boyfriend.

That last question was another reason Emma avoided going out with her mother. Her mother seemed utterly convinced that Emma’s lack of a partner was some sort of tragedy that needed to be remedied as quickly as possible via badly contrived matchmaking. Half the time when Emma accepted her mother’s invitations out they just happened to be meeting with a friend of her mother’s. That friend usually just so happened to have an eligible and appropriately aged son .

It wasn’t that Emma objected to getting a boyfriend. Despite what her mother might say, she certainly wasn’t frigid and puberty had had its way with her like it did with everyone else. There were a few times when she almost thought it might be worth it to go with one of those boys, just to calm her screaming hormones, but in the end she could never make herself do it. They just weren’t… smart enough to keep up with her. Besides, Emma preferred more angular men, and the boys her mother picked out tended to be more square jawed and and broad shouldered.

“Emma,” her mother sighed, disappointed. When was she  _ not  _ disappointed, though?

“ _ Science is for people who don’t have the money to be philanthropists.”  _ Her mother wanted her to go into business, to follow in her footsteps and learn how to invest, how to take what she had and multiply it. Secretly, she thought her mother might have other reasons for not wanting Emma to go into the sciences. After all, her last husband had all but abandoned her in pursuit of discovery until his untimely death… suicide… attempted murder.

“I have schoolwork,” said Emma, crossing a leg over her knee and leaning back in her chair. This wasn’t exactly a lie, although it would take her all of twenty minutes to finish up the book report. Everything else she’d done in class while ignoring the lecture.

“Alright.” Her mother sighed deeper, putting her hands in the air in a gesture of mock surrender. “I’ll leave you be, but if you change your mind, the show doesn’t start until nine. I’m going for drinks with Helena first.”

Emma dismissed her mother with a wave of her hand, spinning her chair back around to face her computer screen. Her bedroom door clicked shut and she ground her teeth. Rows and rows of code seemed to run together. The momentum she’d been building on for the last two hours was gone after her mother’s interruption.

She cursed, pushing off her desk, her chair rolling to the middle of her room. She ran her hands through her hair and over her face, scrubbing at her eyes with the heels of her palms. Her eyes were starting to ache anyways. She could probably use a break.

She scooted her chair to her door, putting her ear against it.

“Later… love… ” was all she could pick out from downstairs. Her mother’s voice.

“—too… yes…” That would be Robinson. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly annoyed, she’d think that she preferred Huey Emmerich as a stepfather to fucking Robinson. It would take her all of about five seconds to remember Huey had tried to kill her, and that his stupid son never wrote her, although she had seen a stash of letters her mother had quickly hid behind her back with his name on them. That was almost worse, that he’d write her mother, but send nothing to her.

Finally, she heard the front door close and Robinson’s footsteps as he made his way back to his study. Emma slipped into the hallway when the footsteps stopped, tiptoeing down the stairs. What she needed was a pick-me-up, a cup of tea or maybe even coffee, if Robinson had picked up some of the expensive French stuff he was partial to.

She was in luck and there was still half a bag of the nice French roast left, and the percolator was clean. She unscrewed it to tap enough coffee grounds in for one cup. Putting the percolator back together and flipping the stove on, she thought maybe she should be drinking decaf. With this stuff, she’d be bouncing off the walls until four. She caught a whiff of the grounds as she was rolling the foil bag shut and decided it was worth it.

She leaned against the counter, focusing on the familiar sound of boiling water and the bubbling of hot coffee. She closed her eyes and hummed, content for the moment. Her mother would be out all night, and with any luck, Robinson would either go out to join her after his call, or be in his office until he went to bed.

She didn’t even hear his footsteps until he was right outside the kitchen. Her eyes snapped open as Robinson wandered in. He still wore his work clothes, but he’d taken off his jacket and tie and undone the top few buttons of his shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his still wore his gold Rolex, a gaudy glimmer on his wrist.

“Is that coffee I smell?” he asked, looking over at the stove.

Emma crossed her arms. “Only enough for one.”

“Oh well,” he chuckled, leaning back on the counter across from her.

“What do you want?” she asked when he made no move to grab anything from the fridge or cupboards. Her eyes narrowed when he laughed again.

“You’re always so defensive.” He smiled. Emma hated his patronizing tone. “I only wanted to chat.”

“If you wanted company, you should have gone to the ballet with mother,” she retorted, turning around to grab a mug from the cupboard above her head. The mugs on the lower shelf were gone. She stood on her tiptoes to reach the closest mug on the shelf above, her fingers just brushing the handle. She was about to jump for it when Robinson pressed in behind her, reaching over her head to grab it for her. He placed the mug on the counter beside her hand and she held her breath, waiting for him to step back. Instead, he placed his hands flat on the counter, arms trapping her on either side. She grit her teeth. If this was an intimidation tactic, it wasn’t working, she lied to herself. Her stomach flipped over and it felt too light inside her.

“Emma,” he sighed.

She couldn’t move. She didn’t want to breathe. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but the words stuck in her throat as his hand rested on her hip and he pressed in closer behind her.

“It’s okay,” he said, “she won’t be home for hours yet.”

She had to do something, had to push him away, something, anything. Her heart hammered in her throat seeming to block her voice.

_ Oh fuck,  _ he was hard, pressing against the back of her thigh. All the breath rushed back into her lungs and she pushed off the counter with both hands, shoving hard against Robinson. He stumbled back, surprised, and she took his moment of imbalance as an opportunity to turn herself around to face him.

She stared at him, stunned, as he regained his composure, his brows drawn tight together, deep creases appearing on his forehead. His eyes narrowed and his crow’s feet bunched on either side, lids drooping to make his scrutiny appear all the more sinister.

“What the fuck,” she finally managed to get out, her voice thinner and higher than she would have liked.

“You play these games, just like your mother,” he said, arms crossed, but his tone was… amused? “You act like you don’t know what you’re doing, but I know why you turn down those boys Julie parades in front of you.”

Her heart froze. There was no way, no possible way he could know.

“I know you’re looking for something those boys can’t give you.” She wished he’d stop talking, she wished he didn’t sound so fucking friendly. “I know you’re just waiting for someone with a little more experience.”

Robinson didn’t know shit. He almost looked comical as he stood there, arms folded, with a bland smile and his erection tenting his work pants. At least he did, until he uncrossed his arms and stepped towards her.

“Leave now or I’ll tell mother,” Emma threatened, knuckles white against the counter behind her.

“You think she hasn’t taken other lovers herself?” he asked incredulously. “Don’t be naive, Emma.”

“I’m not your lover,” Emma hissed, trying to back further away only to find her spine pressed hard against the edge of the counter.

He took another step closer and Emma thought about just how much bigger he was than her. He reached out a hand to cup her cheek and a memory struck her so suddenly she felt like she’d been hit. Hal stood in the hallway outside their parent’s bathroom, her mother in a soft white bathrobe leaning forward to cup his cheek in her hand and place a soft kiss to his forehead.

Robinson’s hand drifted to the nape of her neck, fingers twining in the hair. Another memory, the three of them, Hal, Emma, and her mother, sitting at the breakfast table, her stepfather locked away in his study again. Her mother passed behind Hal on the way to her seat and ran long, pale fingers through his hair, still damp from a shower.

Robinson pressed his lips to the edge of her mouth, his stubble harsh against her skin. She was six years old, towel wrapped around her middle, bathing suit only just starting to dry in the afternoon sun. She looked up at Hal’s window. Sometimes when he was studying, he’d look down and wave. She saw him, leaning against the windowsill, the window open and curtains fluttering out over the ledge. She raised her hand to wave and opened her mouth to call his name, but stopped when she saw her mother place a hand right over his, her perfect red nails bright against the white paint of the sill. Her hand lowered slowly, and she watched her mother lean in to kiss her brother full on the mouth the way she had seen her mother kiss her stepfather, the way grownups kissed on television. She didn’t even hear the whirr of her stepfather’s wheelchair until he was right beside her.  _ “What are you looking at, Emma?” _

“Emma,” mumbled Robinson, his lips on her neck. How long had he been kissing her? Bile rose in her throat and she pushed back against his shoulders.

“Get off me.” She wished it sounded more demanding than pleading.

“It’s alright,” he murmured in her ear.

A hissing beside her, she looked over and saw her coffee had boiled over, hot liquid splashing out of the spout and onto the burner. It splashed her fingers, too, when she reached for it, the handle so hot it almost burned. She held on anyways, arms shaking as she felt a hand fumble for her breasts. Holding the percolator as far from herself as possible she swung it in a wide arc, smacking Robinson in the side. She didn't think it was the force of the blow that made him let go, but the burning coffee spilling onto his back and clinging to his clothes. He yelped, furious, and took a step back. Emma didn’t give him a chance to recover, using every bit of strength she had to slam the hot metal percolator across his cheek. Coffee still left inside splashed her arm and she dropped the pot, fingers throbbing.

Robinson howled and Emma didn’t wait to see what kind of damage she’d inflicted. She sprinted to the door, tugging on her boots and coat, not even bothering with the zipper.

Her parka flapped in the wind as she rounded the corner outside the flat. She had no set destination other than ‘away’ and she wheezed for breath for breath by the third block, her sedentary lifestyle not conducive to feats of athleticism. It was freezing out in late November, the temperature rapidly dropping, and by the time the sun set it would be close to zero if not below. She took a moment outside Knightsbridge station to zip her coat and catch her breath before descending underground.

_ The blonde one is pretty, and he hadn’t laughed at her when she told him she couldn’t swim. He’d told her what it was but she can’t for the life of her remember his name. He stands away from her and Hal, handing Snake the disc she’d only just given him. She hopes it works, it has to work. This is her fault, she’d been so angry and… Hal’s hand on her cheek smoothing away stray hairs that stick to damp skin. He’d gotten so much older, fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and around his mouth. She hopes they are from smiling, but a selfish part of her wants him to have missed her too much for that. She loves him so much. It’s not fair how much time she’d spent trying to forget that. _

Oxford was both exactly what she’d wanted and not quite what she’d expected. She shared a tiny flat with an American student, so it wasn’t her name on the lease. Her flatmate had a parrot that Emma had initially loathed for its habit of quietly croaking repeated phrases at 3am when Emma was half asleep on the couch. It fast grew on her though, during long lonely nights of studying when he would natter softly at her while she worked.

She missed her VHS player, and while she had digital or DVD copies of many of her childhood favorites, it never felt the same. It was nice to have company and another captive audience, though. Her roommate's parrot would often fly over to the couch and sit above her whenever she put a movie on. He had favourites too, and he would happily cackle when she put those on, seeming to prefer older black and white films like  _ It Conquered the World _ , and  _ Tarzan _ .

When her roommate moved out to live with a boyfriend who was allergic to her beloved pet, she left the bird with Emma.

If her mother really wanted, she could probably track her down, but Emma was quite sure her mother was just as happy to have her quietly slip out of her life with no fuss. Well, no more fuss than Robinson’s second degree burns and cracked jaw. Her mother might decide Emma was worth the effort of hunting down if she ever noticed the money Emma was secretly siphoning out of her accounts, but Emma was good, and it was unlikely anyone would notice — even if they did, they’d never be able to pin it on her.

It was hard, sometimes, being the youngest person in a class full of people at least in their late twenties. Her undergrad hadn’t been quite so bad, but the faster she worked through her education, the larger the age gaps became. It wasn’t so much that she minded being underestimated. She always proved them wrong when they did that. It was a combination of her age and gender that, despite her intellect, many of her peers refused to take her seriously. Nothing rankled her more than an expression of bemused indulgence.

_ The computers blip ominously behind her. She tries to turn her head to see, but the stabbing in her gut prevents her from moving, as does Hal’s tight grip. “Did it work?” Hal smiles even though tears are collecting on his glasses, wobbling puddles on the glass hanging above her. He says something reassuring and she knows he’s lying. He’s never been able to lie well to her. It’s both a virtue and a flaw. She’s going to die, she’s going to die and he’ll never know how long she wanted him to see her as more than just his kid sister, but as an equal, a peer. She thinks about the printed copy of her thesis, lying in storage somewhere, probably going damp and rank with mildew. She wonders if he’ll find it and read it and be  _ proud _ of her. _

It was some time after she’d earned her doctorate that she found herself huddled under an awning to escape the torrential November downpour that threatened to drown the city. Rain poured down in freezing sheets and Emma’s shoes were soaked through and squelched when she shifted her weight.

She’d applied for a position as the R&D development team lead for Sony UK and, like every other job she’d applied to in the last few months, the email application and phone interviews had gone perfectly. She sulked in the doorway, kicking a soggy cigarette butt. The interviews always went well until they met her face to face. Seventeen and she looked young for her age, too.

Ruth Lawrence set the record for youngest woman to earn a doctorate several decades earlier and Emma had not garnered nearly the same media attention. Her age didn’t do her any favours. While no one could deny she was brilliant, many questioned her ability to work as part of a team at her age and be accepted by her peers. They cited concerns for  _ her  _ comfort and safety. Emma could have screamed.

She was forced to step out of the doorway when a bell jingled and the door smacked her in the arm as a customer exited. Emma edged out of the doorway and in front of the window display as a harried looking man futilely pulled his collar up against the rain.

The window display was already decked out in red and green, despite the month not even being half over. The brown and gold  _ Optometrist _ window decal was decorated with painted snowflakes. On an artfully crumpled green velvet cloth sat rows of eyeglasses. In the far left row she spotted a pair of translucent thick rimmed frames that were so strikingly similar to the pair she’d once plucked from her brother’s face that she had to take a moment to remind herself they couldn’t possibly be his. She felt, for a moment, like she had when she placed the frames on her own nose, the world warped and a wave of vertigo rushed over her until Hal was forced to catch her as she stumbled over her own feet. There was no one to catch her now and it was only by grabbing the ledge of the display window that she kept herself upright.

She straightened her back before letting go of the ledge. Her hand was wet from rain water and clammy with the cold. She gazed back at the display. On second glance, the translucent glasses were nothing like Hal’s. His had had a more orange-ish tint, and the bottoms had been rounder.

She shook her head and looked behind her at the wet streets. The rain still hadn’t let up and running the last four blocks to the tube station in the downpour was looking less and less appealing. She looked back at the window display, the clear glass of the frames seemed to reflect her face one hundred times over.

_ It would make sense, _ she thought,  _ if I wanted to look older, more serious.  _ She grabbed the tarnished door handle and let herself in, the little bell at the top announcing her entry. Her decision had nothing to do with the way she remembered bony hands catching her under her arms as glasses too big for her face slipped off her nose.

_ She reaches up. He’s got stubble all over now, not just in fluffy patches like she remembered. He’d tried to grow a beard once and their mother…  _ her _ mother, had laughed at him. His face is wet and she wants him to kiss her on the forehead like he used to when she was little. Like when she was little and she stole the glasses from his face so she could try and be smart like him. Like when he caught her under her arms so she wouldn’t fall. He’d let his glasses tumble to the ground to nearly be crushed underfoot just so she wouldn’t fall. _

When the NSA contacted her again, she said no out of habit. Besides, she didn’t like weapons or Americans, though she never lost her accent. They met her in person, pulling up in a sleek black Mercedes.

“I’d like you to take a look at this,” said a man wearing sunglasses. They were all wearing sunglasses, and it took all of Emma’s willpower not to laugh.

He dropped a folder labeled ‘classified’ into her lap and she glanced at him dubiously over the dusty pink frames of her glasses before flipping it open.

‘ _ Shadow Moses Incident’ _ . She’d seen something about this on some conspiracy theory forums, but never anything concrete, and she’d never seen this photograph of Hal before.

It took her all of ten minutes to extend her hand to the man in the sunglasses, the one who handed her to the folder.

“Alright,” she said, failing to keep the venom out of her voice (and she didn’t know who it was even directed at, but her hands were shaking and her face was hot). “You have my attention.”

_ Her fingers wrap around the wire (not plastic anymore) arms of Hal’s glasses. It’s really, really cold — the room, not the frames… actually, they are too. Hal’s calling her a childhood pet name and it makes her stomach twist. The rest is pain, although it doesn’t hurt quite so bad anymore. It’s hard to keep her arm up. It pulls at parts of her she didn’t think could hurt like this, so she lets it drop. She doesn’t remember the last time he called her by her real name. She asks him to call her ‘Emma’. She doesn’t hear his response. _


End file.
